


Prom Queen

by esotericpisces31



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Forbidden Love, Hogwarts, Insecurity, Romance, Slow Burn, Teacher-Student Relationship, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27346096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esotericpisces31/pseuds/esotericpisces31
Summary: You’re a well-admired, intelligent sixth-year student at Hogwarts who tends to make questionable decisions; like skipping your Potions class for the weekly Slytherin darty that the seventh-year boys are constantly inviting you to, despite the fact that you severely lack any interest in them. Your poor yet frequent choices result in you falling behind in Potions (it is the same time as the darties, after all) and you’re forced to pursue the last-resort option of tutoring with Professor Snape. As you begin to spend the additional time together, you decide that he may not be as horrible as you’d initially been led to believe.
Relationships: Severus Snape/Original Character(s), Severus Snape/Original Female Character(s), Severus Snape/Reader
Comments: 26
Kudos: 124





	1. Chapter 1

Three o’clock.

Three o’clock, in the godforsaken morning, is when your roommate makes the regrettable decision to disturb your peaceful slumber in exchange for an irascible escort to the sixth year girls’ lavatory.

“Are. You. Kidding. Me,” is all you can mutter out, as she desperately grabs ahold of your dangling hands and attempts to tear you away from the blissful warmth of your bed. You don’t necessarily blame her for waking you— strange, unexplainable things have been happening at Hogwarts recently, and your headmaster has advised everyone to travel in pairs when necessary. You truly don’t blame her, yet still, it’s _three in the fucking mornin_ g.

“(y/n) please, I’m going to wet myself. Seriously,” she pleads, jerking your hand with growing impatience as you attempt to ignore her. “(y/n) come— _the fuck_ — on! Or I will never, ever, cover for you again during another drunken mishap. Ever.”

You growl lowly, the blatant irritation dawning your admirable features as you reluctantly sit up. As angry as you are, you aren’t quite stupid enough to lose the reminants of your roommate’s loyalty; given how you’ve already experienced the convoulted sensations of being blackout drunk four times this month, and it’s only the thirteenth.

Though, _what can you say_ , the seventh-year Slytherin and Gryffindor boys are constantly inviting you over to their weekly common room darties; despite you being a sixth-year, wise old Ravenclaw. And what kind of person would you be if you were to deny them your desired presence?

You faintly smirk to yourself. You always give yourself more than enough credit, and you aren’t necessarily wrong for doing so. You aren’t a _narcissist_ of course, you’re aware of your flaws and weaknesses as every common being is— though you’ve mastered your ability to conceal them.

It’s what gives you such a distinctive, admirable appeal. The third and fourth year boys are frequently hiding behind the stoned walls of the familiar routes you take everyday to class, hoping and praying that you might acknowledge their presence one day. The fifth through seventh year boys are persistent and determined to gain an ounce of your attention with frivolous gifts and impressionable spells— though you scarcely choose to give anyone the time of day. You don’t care for them, and honestly, you never have.

You admire your preference for solidified independence over a temporary romance. The wicked concept of love isn’t one you’re certain you truly believe in, and you have yet to meet anyone that makes you doubt your stubborn, dignified thoughts. You’ve always preferred to be alone, and you’ve never found anything wrong with that.

You have several friends, though. More than several, if you were to be completely transparent— though you _hate_ sounding so full of yourself, so you usually say you have a mere few if asked. And you love your friends, you love spending time with them and allowing them to see the differing sides of you that aren’t accessible by the general public; though even with your loving and admirable friends, you aren’t entirely yourself.

 _But you’re still happy,_ you tell yourself. _Are you?_

You stumble towards your dresser to retrieve a worn Quidditch sweatshirt from years ago, knowing that the halls were always so unreasonably cold at night, and the fitted bralette paired with your fourth-year undershorts were far below acceptable attire.

“You are so fucking slow,” your roommate snaps, grabbing onto your slender wrist as you lazily shuffle behind her. “If I pee my pants, I swear to Merlin that I won’t talk to you for the remainder of the semester.”

“You promise?” you smirk tiredly, laughing when she only huffs in response.

The halls, as you expected, were unnervingly silent and several degrees below freezing. You groan, attempting to hug yourself with your free arm as your roommate continues to forcefully drag you along. You’re so painfully exhausted, after spending countless _insufferable_ hours studying for your upcoming Potions exam in the library last night. You aren’t terrible at Potions, it isn’t your worst subject at all, though you’ve somehow managed to fall behind after the questionable decision to attend a _certain_ (Slytherin) common room darty earlier this week instead of attending class.

And your Potions professor, Professor Snape, is not at all a forgiving person. You tend to avoid speaking to him unless absolutely necessary, because the abrasive _arcane_ persona overwhelms you— understandably so. He doesn’t necessarily intimidate you, but he is considerably off-putting. And you seriously doubt that he’d take the time out of his day to assist you with learning the lesson you consciously chose to skip in favor of getting hammered in the middle of the day; therefore, you’d rather attempt to teach yourself and risk failing.

Honestly, you often find yourself questioning _how_ exactly you were sorted into Ravenclaw. Yes, you’re unbelievably intelligent and impressively quick-witted, though you seemingly lack common sense. It’s actually an on-going joke between yourself and your friends— how you’re incredibly wise, though generally dumb when it comes to making basic, everyday decisions.

“(y/n), Don’t. Move,” your roommate says in a threatening tone, as she releases her deathly grip on your wrist to run inside the restroom. You watch her with slight annoyance, though you’re far too tired to care anymore. You’re dreading the thought of having to wake in a few measly hours, and all you want is to be beneath the comforting sheets of your nice and warm—

“Lumos,” you suddenly hear, and nearly experience a heart attack from the genuine terror that you felt for those three seconds before the owner of the gravely voice came into view.

“Professor Snape?” you gasp, still breathless from having the living shit scared out of you. “Why are you here?” you then hear yourself asking— _clearly_ lacking your usual filter given the time of night.

Though, you suppose, it _is_ a valid question. What is the head of Slytherin doing in Ravenclaw’s tower this late?

“I suppose I could ask you that exact question myself,” he responds slowly, lowering his wand as he stares at you with that infamous stoic expression. “Are you aware, Miss [y/n], of the time?”

You almost roll your eyes, though _thankfully_ your faint sense of awareness kicks in and prevents you from doing so.

“Yes. Well, sort of. I don’t know the exact time, obviously, but I do know that it’s incredibly late and I truly would rather be in bed right now than standing here with you,” you say, and immediately regret it. God, what is wrong with you? You cannot be this far sleep deprived that you sound like this much of a blithering idiot. “I didn’t mean—”

He immediately interrupts you.

“Please, Miss [y/n], withhold yourself from further embarrassment and refrain from speaking idle nonsense that tends to put you in execrable situations such as,” he pauses, lifting his lightened wand to your face as you begin to frown, “This.”

“Sorry,” you mutter, and he merely waves you off.

“Back to your dormitory, Miss [y/n]. And I do expect to be graced with your disreputable presence in my classroom later this afternoon, instead of the newly forbade halls of my common room.”

Your eyes widen. How the hell did he know about that? The room was charmed.

“Uh—” you have no idea how to respond, so you merely nod and awkwardly hug yourself, suddenly feeling conscious about your lack of attire, “I’ll be in class, professor.”

“We shall see, I suppose,” Professor Snape responds dryly, as if he has become bored with your conversation. “Now return to your dormitory.”

“Well I’m waiting for–”

And with impeccable timing, your roommate finally emerges from the restroom. She immediately takes notice of Professor Snape’s unexpected presence and freezes, glancing at you with widened eyes.

 _See_ , you aren’t the only person who feels the need to crumble beneath his threatening gaze.

“Ah, well of course. I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he sighs, seemingly annoyed by this duo, and glances between you and your terrified roommate. “Let’s go. I will escort you back to your dormitory, ensuring that you actually make it there,” he looks to you, and you smirk slightly.

You swear— and it could be the lack of sleep, or the general lack of light— but you _swear_ he smirks too.

_What the fuck, did you just have a moment?_

You’re still trying to decipher what happened when you make it back to the sixth year’s hall. Your roommate mutters a quick _thank you_ to your brooding professor before sprinting off, though you choose to linger behind for a moment.

“Something bad is happening, isn’t it?” you suddenly muster up enough courage to ask— knowing Professor Snape wouldn’t be policing the halls of Ravenclaw if someone hadn’t ordered him to do so. You suspect it was Dumbledore.

He looks to you, and though his face remains stoic, you swear you see a faint glimmer of curiosity in his eyes.

“I was just wondering,” you continue to say, since he didn’t give you much of a response, “I just didn’t think you’d be here if something wasn’t going on, you know? And I know weird things have been happening lately…like, everyone has been theorizing what it might be. So I just thought I’d ask.”

Professor Snape watches you for a moment, his darkened eyes briefly holding your pryful gaze, and you begin to feel a weird sense of— _attraction_? What?

Jesus, how fucking bizarre has this night been?

“Goodnight, Miss [y/n],” is all he says, before swiftly putting out his light and walking away.

Though he had entirely disappeared within the darkness, your gaze remains fixated on the emptied hallway for several additional moments.

Perhaps he wasn’t as terrifying as you initially thought.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos! Enjoy the second chapter :)

You walk into Potions the following afternoon, unsurprisingly— and honestly, what you feel should’ve been expectedly— _late_ .   
  
You and your group of friends have secured the best spot, in your opinion, towards the farthest left corner of the classroom— the second to last row. You timidly lower your head as you shuffle towards the back, hoping and praying that you aren’t deservingly called out for your tardiness. 

To your surprise, Professor Snape only _briefly_ glares in your direction upon your delayed arrival, before continuing to assist Malfoy and his little gang with whatever they were incorrectly brewing in their cauldron. 

You’re relieved, given how you are _definitely_ buzzed; though not necessarily drunk, you wouldn’t doubt his ability to notice if you were somehow trapped into a forced conversation. You decide to blame those seventh-year Slytherin boys for your current predicament instead of your obvious lack of self control.

“(y/n), you are beyond stupid,” your tall, giggling blonde friend whispers as you carefully lower yourself onto the stool beside her. You feel as though your brain is hexed with the levicorpus spell, and you immediately rest your forehead against the wooden surface of the table.

“Shut the fuck up, Quinn,” you hiss. Your eyes close briefly, before you force them open again. Okay so, buzzed might be an understatement as of right now.

“(y/n), I swear you linger around Slytherin’s common room more than your own. Perhaps the sorting hat was wrong and you’re actually one of us,” the slender, black-headed boy beside you laughs. His name is Rane and you’ve been friends since your first-year at Hogwarts, despite being sorted into different houses.

“Perhaps,” you jokingly agree, shaking your head slightly. 

The harmless joke immediately catches _someone’s_ attention, and Pansy Parkinson’s arrogant head nearly spins off its unbalanced axis as she narrows her threatening gaze at you and your friends.

“She _wishes_ ,” she spits, staring at you with utter disgust, “She doesn’t have what it takes to be a Slytherin. Also, we don’t accept _sluts_.” 

You feel far too nauseous to care— honestly, you probably wouldn’t care regardless given that Pansy has always been a vile, insecure bitch— but your friends immediately come to your defense. 

“Oh Pansy, how can you truly live with yourself when knowing that Draco pays more attention to (y/n)’s ass than literally _anything_ that comes out of your mouth?” Quinn grins, eyeing your mutual enemy with her signature coy smile. “How awful it must be, knowing that (y/n) could care less about securing any type of romantic encounter with Malfoy, yet he’s probably smiled at her more than he’s _ever_ looked at you. And he’s your boyfriend. How embarrassing.” 

“ _Fuck_ you,” Pansy hisses, and you immediately notice the reddening against her cheeks as she turns herself back around. 

You snort. How embarrassing, indeed.

“Miss (y/l/n). Miss Atkinson. I expect to see you after class,” Professor Snape’s perturbed tone quickly catches your attention, and you groan irritably as Quinn sighs with annoyance. 

Where did he even come from?

“Yes sir,” you both mutter simultaneously, before sharing a glance. Snape _always_ favors Slytherins— and it’s almost laughable, considering that Pansy had clearly started the entire argument. 

But you and Quinn are both Ravenclaws, so clearly logic plays no role here. And with Pansy being his Head Girl as well— you truly never stood a chance against her. 

You don’t regret it though. The sad, jealous bitch deserved it. 

“That’s a shame,” you hear Rane mutter beside you, and quietly sigh in agreement. “I’ll wait for you two out in the hall, so we can still head over to the courtyard together for lunch.” 

You and Quinn both shoot Rane a brief, appreciable smile, before finally choosing to focus on your Potions lesson. 

* * *

When class finally comes to an end, you and Quinn reluctantly stay behind as your classmates begin to filter out. The alcohol within your system still has your head spinning— much to your _dismay—_ and you attempt to balance yourself against Quinn’s shoulder as your Potions Master removes himself from the reserved space behind his podium.

“What a surprise,” he begins, and he sounds as if he’s already bored of the conversation that _just_ began, “You two, once again, being reprimanded for disrupting the controlled domain of my classroom. How _inconceivably_ dreadful.” 

Quinn sighs, and you know she’s going to try her luck. “Sir, you don’t understand—”

“I don’t understand, that you have, once _again_ , completely disregarded the rules that I have intentionally put into place for this class? After our encounter last night, I trusted that you two would develop the _slightest_ ounce of consideration for retaining order— though here we are,” Professor Snape stares at you both with looming irritation, before abruptly turning on his heels and striding towards the podium. “Five points will be taken from Ravenclaw for the need to reprimand your behavior twice within twenty-four hours. Atkinson, detention tomorrow afternoon for the usage of inappropriate dialect towards another student. (y/l/n), detention this Saturday afternoon for wandering into my class twenty-four minutes late— under the _influence_.” 

Your eyes widen in horror and Quinn turns to you with her mouth apague. He _knows_ that you're tipsy? You swore you were hiding it fairly well, all things considered. 

“You are dismissed,” Professor Snape snaps, and you realize that you and Quinn are still awkwardly standing before him with slack jaws and confused expressions. 

Quinn hurriedly grabs your arm and drags you out the room behind her, since, for whatever reason, you hadn’t started moving on your own. Once you’ve reached the hallway, she nearly shrieks with disbelief before shoving your shoulder with slight aggression.

“(y/n), do you know how bloody lucky you are?!” Quinn hisses. Rane approaches you both, seemingly intrigued to catch up on the action. “Snape knew you’d been drinking and only gave you a Saturday _detention_. He could’ve gotten you expelled, had he felt like it!” 

“Whoa, you truly lucked out (y/n). A Saturday detention isn’t thrilling, but anything beats expulsion,” Rane says, sharing the disbelief as well, as the three of you head down the hallway. “Perhaps Snape fancies you a bit. I wonder what that’s like,” he laughs. 

“It’s great, apparently,” you joke, smiling faintly. 

Have you somehow made it into Snape’s diminutive circle of favorites, which is primarily reserved for Slytherins? You can’t help but wonder.

Sure, you do well fairly well in Potions and assist with heightening the class average— though, _obviously_ , recent events haven’t exactly played into your favor. 

Whatever. It’s probably all in your head, so you silently vow to stop thinking about it. 

* * *

Later that evening, despite having class the following morning, you find yourself in Hufflepuff’s common room with the sweet, _sweet_ company of your closest friends and an inhumane amount of alcohol. 

You’ve never paid much attention to Hufflepuffs, though apparently _several_ of them have close ties in town and were able to score a plethora of liquor for a reasonable price. Perhaps you’ll come here more often— they _are_ nicer than the seventh-year Slytherins, after all. 

“(y/n), come to the girls’ lav with me,” Quinn says against your ear, attempting to speak over the deafening music. 

You simply nod and toss your emptied cup in the trash before following her out, balancing yourself against her shoulders as you shuffle towards the lavatory. Neither of you are wearing shoes— you _vaguely_ remember discarding your heels an hour or so ago because it became too difficult to dance in them— so you both walk quickly, given how cold the stone flooring feels against your feet.

Once you make it to the girl’s lav, you patiently wait outside the door while Quinn hurries inside. To your surprise, she’s much quicker than usual— and before you somehow manage to find yourself wandering off she’s grabbing onto your arm again and leading you back.

“Wait,” you force Quinn to halt her movements as you release her hand and begin patting down your body. “Where’s my wand?” 

Quinn blinks. “What do you mean, I thought you left it in your bra?” she asks, confused, given that _is_ your personalized go-to storage facility. 

You check again, and suddenly panic-stricken, begin to shake your head frantically. 

“It was just there,” you say tearfully. Whether it’s the alcohol in your system or sudden surge of anxiety— or _both_ — you feel yourself on the verge of tears. 

How could you lose your wand? 

You never lose your wand.

“Okay, okay,” Quinn tries to calm you and gently rests her hand against your bare shoulder, “Could it have possibly fallen out on the way to the girls’ lav? We were going pretty fast, you might’ve not noticed?” 

You think for a moment. “Possibly,” you decide, sniffling a bit. “I’ll trace our steps back to the lav, and you search the area near the common room. I’ll meet you in five.” 

Quinn nods, offering you a reassuring smile, before beginning to make her way back towards the common room. You pause for a moment to breathe— your anxiety has caused you to sober up _quite_ a bit now— and head off towards the lav. 

_Breathe, breathe_ , you repeat quietly to yourself. Don’t panic. Not yet, anyway. 

You become mere steps away from those giant mahogany doors when a flash of light suddenly appears behind you, and startles you so badly that you manage to trip over your own feet. 

“Ouch,” you groan and hug your knee against your torso, after having roughly landed on it. You honestly wouldn’t be surprised if you dislocated something there— your clumsiness caused you to fall _hard._ “Dammit.”

Your peripheral view provides you with the ability to see the tall, dark figure quickly approaching you; and your stomach twists into painful knots as your heartbeat quickens. 

_Who the hell is that?_

“(y/l/n).”

Oh— _oh_ , it’s Professor Snape. 

How the hell does he manage to be everywhere? 

Within seconds, he’s standing over you. You don’t even attempt to conceal your surprise when he brings himself onto his knees, and meets your gaze with genuine concern looming behind his darkened eyes. 

“Uh, you kinda startled me,” you finally mutter out, unsure of how exactly to approach the situation. By the look of indubitable conflict happening on his face, you assume he feels the same. 

Your professor sighs, and you immediately sense the irritation behind his stifled exhale. “My _apologies_ , Miss (y/l/n). Though you are, once again, wandering a domain that does not necessitate your presence—”

He pauses— and it seems as though he’s finally taken unintentional notice of your attire, because he quickly diverts his gaze elsewhere and moves a few inches away from you, “—out of _uniform_.”

Oh, he is not amused by you in the slightest. You’re unsure as to why you feel so…... _disappointed_? 

Your smoldering red dress is hugging your body nicely, after all. It has undoubtedly assisted with the countless compliments you’ve received throughout the night. 

“I know,” you smile apologetically, “I’m sorry, I truly am. I somehow lost my wand, I think, and I was retracing my steps to find—” 

Snape lifts his hand to silence you, and you watch with heightened curiosity as he reaches into his robe.

“ _This_ wand, (y/l/n)?” 

Your eyes immediately light up. 

“Yes!” you shriek, and before you can stop yourself you’ve launched the upper-half of your body forwards, hugging your noticeably uncomfortable Potions Master. “Thank you sooo much!” 

You don’t even realize how your _appreciable_ chest is pressing firmly against his, or how your heated breath is rhythmically hitting the side of his neck. 

You aren’t even drunk anymore. You just genuinely lack self-awareness, at times. 

“(y/l/n),” Professor Snape mutters, stiffening beneath your arms. “Kindly remove yourself— please.” 

“Oh,” you quickly retract, and immediately begin to feel your face heating up from embarrassment. 

You are so _stupid_. Why in the hell would you do that? 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why—” 

“How is your knee currently feeling?” Your professor interrupts, recasting the Lumos spell with his own wand as he _respectively_ observes your damaged limb. You know it’s intentional, and though you wished it hadn’t— it hurt your feelings a little. 

“It’s a bit sore,” you admit, passively, “I think I’ll be fine though.”

You suddenly attempt to stand, only to find yourself wincing in _immense_ pain a second later. Gritting your teeth to avoid cursing, you shift your weight onto your left side and release a shaky exhale.

“It appears to be far more unpleasant than a falsified _sore_ would imply, Miss (y/l/n),” Snape’s free hand gravitates towards your bare knee, before abruptly halting its movement. His inquisitive eyes then meet yours, and his brow raises slightly, in question, “May I?” 

“Oh, yeah. Definitely,” you nod, a little too enthusiastically. Your professor doesn’t seem to notice— or simply just doesn’t care. You assume it’s the latter.

The palm of his hand gently rests against your bare, heated skin, and you resist the urge to gasp from the feeling. It wasn’t even a sexual desire— necessarily— it just simply felt strangely…. _comforting_?

You didn’t think Snape had the ability to provide _anyone_ with a sense of comfort. How fucking bizarre. 

Though as quickly as the moment began, it ended. He suddenly breaks the contact, much to your disappointment, and lifts his wand towards the faint bruising. 

“This may hurt,” he warns, locking your gaze with a deepening frown. His evident concern only causes your own anxieties to increase. 

“Uh, alright,” you frown. You assume he’s going to heal it with magic— you just aren’t sure _how_. 

Your professor begins to mutter a spell that you’re unfamiliar with as his wand releases a controlled, illuminated lavender light that snakes itself around your calf before slowly moving towards your knee. Once it reaches the area with bruising, it becomes significantly warmer, and you swear you stop breathing when it slithers beneath the surface of your skin. 

Holy _shi–_

“Owwwwww,” you hiss, tears threatening to form beneath your sealed eyelids as you convulse backwards, “Freaking Christ.” The pain is _excruciating_. 

What the fuck kind of spell is this? 

“Give it a moment,” Snape’s voice is surprisingly gentle, and you feel his hand rest against your forearm with subtle reassurance. 

You can’t lie, it _does_ make you feel the slightest bit better. 

Only a single tear manages to trickle out of your eye, and you exhale deeply when your professor finally removes his wand. 

“Now,” he shifts his hand from your forearm towards the small of your back, and assists you with sitting up, “How is your knee currently feeling?” he repeats cooly. The prior _hint_ of concern has diminished, and his tone insinuates that he's bored of being your presence, once again. 

You sigh. It was nice while it lasted.

“Well,” you hesitate for a moment, before _slowly_ stretching out your leg. To your surprise, you have the ability to move it without any problems. 

_Wow._

“It feels fine now,” you say, smiling. “Thank you.” 

Professor Snape offers you a short nod in response, before completely removing himself from your proximity and standing to his feet. You begin to stand as well— though pause when you notice his outstretched hand. You make a poor attempt at hiding your smile as you accept it. 

For whatever reason, you find yourself blushing. 

“Thank you, seriously,” you say again, attempting to smoothen your dress once you’re comfortably standing. As you were moving to your feet it managed to shift upwards a little, becoming more revealing than it already was; and though your subconscious has contrasting thoughts, you decide you don’t want to make your professor any more uncomfortable than he already is. 

“I really do appreciate it,” you add, taking a few steps back. 

A _respectable_ distance. 

“I do admit that I may have been partially responsible for your gruesome fall,” Snape concedes. You smirk a little as he continues, “Miss (y/l/n), have this occurrence be the last of our unforeseen encounters. I no longer wish to find you lingering somewhere you should not be— particularly at these hours. If this were to happen again, I will be obligated to speak with Flitwick concerning your insubordinate behavior.” 

“Yes sir,” you quickly nod. You almost feel guilty, because you _know_ you’ll find yourself in any house except your own tomorrow night— it _is_ Friday, after all. 

It’s a good thing that you’ve always been exceptionally talented in the art of lying. 

“Very well,” your professor lifts his chin curtly, and begins to walk away. “Tell Miss Atkinson I said hello.” 

You look to him quickly, though he’s nearly out of your eyesight at this point.

You can’t help but grin. 

You’re almost upset that you don’t have Potions tomorrow— and then you remember you have detention with him Saturday.

Your smile widens.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kudos and comments! I just wanted to mention that I’m writing these chapters as I go— and I’m a college student— so I don’t necessarily have a ton of free time right now, which is why I can only update every few days. I appreciate your support and I hope you enjoy this chapter <3

“(y/n), are you _certain_ you can’t come?” 

Quinn and Rane gaze at you with pleading eyes as you sigh heavily, tilt your head upwards, and press your lips tightly together in slight frustration. 

“I’ve already told you both, _twice_ , that I have detention tomorrow. At nine in the fucking morning, with _Snape_ ,” you say, rolling your eyes as the three of you turn down the corridor towards Ravenclaw’s common room. “Obviously I would be there if I didn’t have anything worth waking up at the ass-crack-of-dawn for, but _hello_ , consequences for drinking before class I presume.” 

“Obviously,” Quinn repeats, frowning, “You’re truly lucky that Snape let you off so easily. I still can’t believe it.” 

Rane laughs and gently nudges your shoulder as you questionably raise your brow at Quinn, “What, did you _want_ her to get expelled or something, Quinny?” he teases, though you find yourself being curious of her answer. 

She _does_ keep mentioning the fairly nonexistent punishment you received; but then again, why does she care so much? 

“Of course not,” Quinn says, and stares at you both as if you’ve lost your minds, “I was just simply stating that (y/n) was lucky to receive such a mild punishment, especially from _Snape_. It’s not sarcastic or malicious, so relax.” 

She then begins to walk slightly ahead of your group, and you and Rane shrug with a looming sense of indifference. You find yourself failing to care about Quinn’s bizarre attitude any longer— this conversation has become entirely too boring. 

“Well, do either of you know where you’re traveling for holiday yet?” you decide to ask, mindfully choosing to shift the conversation into a happier direction. The taut atmosphere is beginning to affect your mood, “My parents have extended an invitation to our chateau in Switzerland, if either of you wanted to come along. It’s unbelievably beautiful there, and so peaceful. I think you’d love it.” 

Quinn abruptly halts her steps, before swiftly turning on her heels to face you. You notice how aggressively she’s clutching onto her books— given the impending whiteness of her knuckles— and you tilt your head curiously. 

What the hell is she so _angry_ at you for?

“My God (y/n), is it bloody impossible for you to go a single day without mentioning how rich your parents are!” she snaps, watching you with aberrant hostility as you take a step towards her, “You’re becoming just as arrogant as Malfoy, if not _more_.” 

“When have I _ever_ spoken about money out of context?” you snarl, locking your eyes on Quinn’s darkened ones, “I was simply inviting you to join me because I thought it would be a fun experience for the three of us, what the hell is your problem?!” 

Quinn begins to speak, though suddenly refrains herself from doing so. Instead, she offers you a nasty glare before releasing a seething huff and storming away. 

“What in the fuck?” you nearly shout, meeting Rane’s narrowed gaze as you share a mutual sense of confusion, “What the fuck was that about?” 

Rane sighs, and you recognize the hesitance behind his eyes. “I really don’t know (y/n), perhaps she’s going through something?” 

“Like _what_ ?” you hiss impatiently. You don’t have time to decipher his words— like, why the _hell_ is he choosing right now to speak in riddles as if he’s Dumbledore? Honestly.

“I don’t know— listen, I’ve got to head to class. Just give her some time to cool down and talk later… or tomorrow. I’ll see you both at Quidditch,” Rane avoids your threatening glare as he speaks, and quickly turns away to head down the corridor before you have the opportunity to question him further.

You watch him leave with a deepening scowl as your lips twitch with utter disbelief. 

_What the fuck just happened?_

“Well she seems quite angry,” you suddenly hear from behind you, and nearly faint from surprise when you turn to see Luna’s inquisitive expression. “Are you alright, (y/n)?” 

You want to be angry at her for the obvious eavesdropping— though, you honestly can’t bring yourself to do so. Luna is far too kind, and _delicate_ , to even consider having anger towards. 

“Yes, thanks Luna,” you say with a genuine smile. 

“Of course,” she kindly returns your smile, “And don’t fret, I’m sure she’ll forgive you for whatever you did,” she adds, before happily skipping away.

You can only sigh and shake your head as you begin to walk back towards your dorm. 

* * *

  
The following morning you awake in the _worst_ possible mood that you’ve experienced during your six years at Hogwarts thus far. 

Quinn had ignored you for the remainder of the day, and continued doing so throughout dinner— even refusing to _acknowledge_ your existence once you’d both returned to the dormitories for bed. 

What an absolute _bitch_. 

You’re thankful you have a variety of second-tier friends to lean towards for temporary amusement during these difficult times; though you will admit, Quinn has always been your favorite. So yes, perhaps this hurts more than you’ve led on. 

Whatever.

You irritably shift from your side to your stomach, and glance at the antique clock at your bedside with narrowed eyes.

_8:35_

Shit.

“Are you kidding me,” you hiss, tossing your blankets aside as you hurriedly stumble out of bed. You rush towards your wardrobe and begin to get dressed— though still being mindful enough to stay quiet, given that your roommates have the privilege of sleeping in on this wondrous Saturday morning. 

You hardly have time to complete any of your usual tasks within your morning routine, and you sprint with lightning speed towards the girls’ lav to brush your teeth and use the restroom. You groan with irritance as you attempt to smooth out your hair, wanting to at least appear as _almost_ presentable, before rolling your eyes defeatedly and storming out of the room. 

It only takes you eight minutes to get from Ravenclaw to the dungeons— a journey that would take twelve to fifteen on your average day. Though what can you say, _lightning speed._

You arrive at your professor’s office with only a minute to spare, noticeably sweaty and considerably more angry than you had been before. You release a trembling exhale and briefly close your eyes— wanting to have your deathening attitude under control before you come face to face. Your Potions Master has never been too keen about teenage back-talk, and you don’t want to give him another reason to dislike you further. 

_Calm the fuck down._

You give yourself ten seconds to achieve as much tranquility as possible before reluctantly wracking your knuckles against the iron frame. 

You hear several distinctive clicks, and then the door is swiftly opened.

“Ah, Miss (y/l/n). Punctuality has never been your strong suit, as you are _two minutes late._ How utterly surprising,” Professor Snape sighs with evident disinterest as he opens the door further, motioning for you to come inside. 

You mutter an empty apology as you pass through, and bitterly roll your eyes once he’s no longer able to see your face. Clearly this is going to be a _long_ two hours. 

You awkwardly linger before the expansive bookshelf that’s positioned directly beside the arched doorway and narrow your eyes; silently observing your surroundings as your gaze drifts around the spacious room. You’re surprised at how elegantly his office is decorated— not that you didn’t think he had taste— though _clearly_ his is exquisite. And it’s much warmer than what you would’ve expected— almost comforting, dare you say.

How bizarre.

You find yourself back in your usual reality when the door creaks shut behind you, and a series of goosebumps appear beneath your navy sweater as Professor Snape walks by you. 

_What is that, spice mixed with vanilla? Oak?_ you wonder. You never noticed how pleasant his scent was before. 

“Miss (y/l/n), I have assigned a series of tasks that I expect you to thoroughly complete over the extent of your sentencing,” Snape begins to explain, and doesn’t bother to look at you as he does so. He’s returned to the reserved space behind his desk, and seems to be more consumed with the act of grading the numerous stacks of parchment than your lingering presence. “There are ten cases of soiled beakers and flasks that require appropriate cleaning before class is resumed on Monday, located over on the emptied table behind the bookshelf. I have provided the suitable equipment you’ll need to do so. You may begin.” 

You quickly turn your head to locate the cases in question, and almost faint when you see the absurd amount of dirty bottles that you instantly recognize from Potions. They’re neatly organized on the table, and there’s a small container with the equipment he mentioned beside it. 

_No fucking way._

“But that’s over a hundred beakers and flasks!” you don’t realize that you’re _inappropriately_ raising your voice until Snape’s movements halt, and he lifts his head to stare at you with a deepening frown. 

“My apologies, Miss (y/l/n), is _expulsion_ your newfound preference?” he says, his expression darkening. You quickly come to the conclusion that you’re beginning to push it too far, and immediately concede.

“No, sorry,” you sigh. Your eyes reluctantly drift back towards the stacked cases, and you feel a sense of dread consume you. 

Would it even be _humanly_ possible to finish this in two hours? The Quidditch match is happening around noon, after all.

You grimly bite your lip and release a stifled exhale as you reluctantly approach your task. 

_I guess I’ll have to work quickly.  
  
_

* * *

_Crash!_

Of course. 

You sigh deeply and squeeze your eyes shut as your gloved hands fall defeatedly at your sides. After almost two completed hours of attentive cleaning, the final case of beakers and flasks have tipped over and shattered around your feet, entrapping you behind the table. 

You can easily hear the aggravation beneath your professor’s exhaustive sigh, and that’s truly the last straw. 

You start to cry.

“(y/l/n),” Professor Snape begins, though abruptly halts his reprimanding when he notices your distressed tears. 

You’re so frustrated—about _everything_ — and you assume he can sense as much, given how eerily silent he is. 

You hear him quietly mutter a spell, which you know he’s using to dispose of the mess you stupidly made; though you still can’t bring yourself to open your eyes. Not only are you embarrassed about completely destroying his equipment, but now you’re fucking _crying_ in front of him. How much lower could you possibly go? 

This is utterly humiliating.

“It’s all replaceable, Miss (y/l/n). There’s no logistical reasoning for you to shed any tears over a set of old beakers and flasks,” Snape says, and his tone is uncharacteristically gentle. 

Why the hell does that make you cry even _harder_? 

“I can pay for it,” you pathetically choke out, as a series of restrained tears begin to fall down the slope of your nose, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that, I don’t know what happened–”

“It’s _alright_ ,” you reluctantly meet your professor’s concerned gaze as your brows furrow deeply with regret. His mouth twitches slightly, and he extends a silky black handkerchief towards you, “Everything is alright, Miss (y/l/n). You need to breathe properly, before you make yourself ill.” 

“Thank you,” you mutter, quickly wiping away your tears. “Sorry.” 

Professor Snape silently motions towards the couch behind you, urging you to sit down and _breathe—_ as he’d already requested before. You continue to use his handkerchief— which, you’d noticed, has his initials engraved in white at the bottom— to catch your lingering tears as you hesitantly sit. 

You find yourself being slightly disappointed when he doesn’t join you; though you can’t help but muster a tiny grin when he rests his firm hand against your shoulder. You subconsciously lean into his touch.

“Better?” he asks with an inquisitive brow, his voice remaining abnormally tender. You can’t help but wonder if he truly cares, or if he’s just uncomfortable by your sudden display of emotion and hopes you’ll leave soon. 

Regardless of the answer, you nod. “I think so. It’s been a hard day.” 

He smirks faintly, and you’re honestly thrown off by it. “It’s hardly noon, Miss (y/l/n). Though I suppose I doubted the utter cruelty of disinfecting lab equipment on a Saturday morning. I hardly considered its ability to be a prevalent cause for such misery to a student,” he teases.

You can’t help but laugh. You really enjoy seeing him like this— like a _normal_ person. “I sincerely wish that cleaning beakers and flasks were the primary source of my unhappiness,” you say, still continuing to smile despite the compelling sense of sadness you’re beginning to feel. “It was honestly the most calming thing I’ve done, aside from sleep, in the last several weeks. Well, before the last case shattered…” you pause, experiencing the guilt again.

“They are _replaceable_ , (y/l/n). It is nearly concerning how enthralled you are with a few dozen hollowed bottles,” Snape says passively, and removes his hand from your shoulder. You frown slightly as he steps away from you and the table, lingering by the bookshelf for a moment, “Dumbledore is far overdue for providing a newer set for my classroom anyhow, so if anything, this is _convenient_.” 

“Okay,” you say, though you’re still doubtful. “I swear I’ll never break anything else of yours, though. Honestly.” 

Your professor’s mouth twitches slightly, almost into a subtle smile. “Somehow I severely doubt as much, Miss (y/l/n),” he replies, _amused_. “Now, I suppose Miss Atkinson and Mr. Fernsby are anticipating your attendance at this afternoon’s Quidditch match, so I presume you should begin your journey towards the field.” 

Ah, your cue to leave.

You reluctantly stand to your feet, and follow closely behind your Potions Master as he leads you towards the door. “Will you be in attendance as well, professor?” you can’t help but ask. _Say yes, say yes._

Snape glances at you with a slight, observant smirk as he lifts his brow. “Is Slytherin competing?” he replies absently, and you find yourself laughing again. 

“I suppose I’ll see you on Monday, then,” you say, grinning as you step past him. You almost feel _sad—_ despite Monday being much closer than you were making it seem. 

_God, get a grip (y/n)._

“I suppose so,” Snape repeats, and his deepened eyes watch you with masqued intent, “I expect to see you in my classroom _on time_ , Miss (y/l/n). No exceptions.” 

“Of course, prof,” you say cheerfully, though you both know that you’ll be _at_ _least_ five minutes behind everyone else. “Have a good weekend!” you then call over your shoulder, not bothering to turn around and gauge his reaction. 

You can tell that he’s _ever so slightly_ fascinated by you, and that alone is enough to boost your ego for the remainder of the afternoon. 

You can’t wait for Monday. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos, as always! Hope you enjoy <3

On Monday afternoon— after an abnormally calm Sunday evening that you decided to spend _studying_ in Ravenclaw’s exclusive library _—_ you walk into Potions with a sly grin and your skirt intentionally rolled twice. You haven’t stopped thinking about your interaction with Professor Snape since the moment you’d reluctantly left his office for the Quidditch match, and you’ve been borderline _desperate_ to converse privately with him again. His presence alone fascinates you beyond anything else you’ve experienced before, and you have no idea _why_. 

_Who cares as to why_ , you continue to tell yourself. _He’s attractive, obviously intelligent, and he’s taken a liking towards you. Use that to your advantage._

So you purposely shortened your skirt and loosened your navy tie during your walk to his classroom. You sway your hips as you strut through the darkened threshold, hoping to gain your professor’s attention before class even begins. You’ve already caught yourself fantasizing about sharing secretive glances with him; silently communicating through your reflective eyes in a language that only the two of you understand. 

He’s such a complex person, you can easily tell as much. And with being a Ravenclaw, your vast areas of expertise aren’t merely reserved for academics— you attain a high sense of emotional intelligence as well. Your Potions Master is the most difficult individual you’ve ever attempted to read, and that only intrigues you more. 

_And God, is he handsome. The things you would do..._

Your sinful daydreams are quickly interrupted, however, when your altered attire only gains the unwanted attention of two Gryffindor boys in the front. And much to your disappointment, you quickly realize that Professor Snape is too consumed with scribbling away on his parchment to notice your appearance— so you irritably roll your eyes as you head towards your usual seat in the back.

 _Whatever._

You try to convince yourself that you don’t care. 

“(y/n), you’re _on_ _time_?” Rane gasps, dramatically clasping his hand over his mouth as you take the seat beside him. “And, wait, don’t tell me— are you completely _sober_ as well?! No shots with the Slytherin boys today?” 

“Ha ha,” you playfully stick your tongue at him and he erupts into a fit of laughter, “You are hilarious. If you weren’t a subpar wizard, you could definitely pursue a career as a comedian.” 

Rane smiles, nudging your shoulder, “I believe so, as well.” 

“I’m sure you–” 

“(y/l/n),” you suddenly hear on your left, and you halt your response to Rane. 

The rude interruption causes you to sigh with annoyance, and you turn your head the slightest bit to look over at Malfoy. Your arched brow provides him with the indication to continue, “You’re accompanying me to the Yule Ball in the coming weeks, correct?” he says with a coy smile, becoming far too confident as Blaise utters several unintelligible words to him. 

You don’t even bother resisting the urge to laugh. “Please, as _if._ ” 

Draco’s face immediately reddens, and his narrowed gaze hardens against your own. “ _Well_ my father said that your parents already agreed that we would be going together,” he replies hastily, “So I would suggest speaking with them, and then coming back to me with an _apology_. Or you’ll be going alone.” 

“I’d rather go _alone_ ,” you snarl. Though you will admit, the blatant look of devastation on Pansy’s face does make this interaction slightly less painful. Because how embarrassing it must be, for the Malfoys to prioritize the rankings of your family over her own. And she’s supposedly his girlfriend. 

_Tragic_ indeed, though generally unsurprising. Both yours and Draco’s families are within the Top 5 of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and have always attained a mutual respect for one another. Though, while the Malfoys have consistently pushed Draco towards pursuing a romantic relationship with you since the beginning of your second-year, your parents could care less about your current dating life. 

As corny as it is, they just want you to be _happy_ — so they say. 

“You’ll regret saying that,” Draco spits, and he eyes you threateningly. You simply roll your eyes, because you’ve known him since you were toddlers— almost the entirety of your seventeen years of life— and he’s always been the least intimidating person you know, “My father will hear about this! You’ve always been such a difficult bit–”

“Mr. Malfoy, I would suggest you take careful consideration of the language that you decide to use in my classroom. If not, perhaps you may mistakenly utter such a phrase that would land you in a Saturday detention with _me_ ,” Professor Snape’s impassive tone interrupts Malfoy’s empty threats, and you both quickly turn to face him. “ _Enough_ , from the both of you.” 

“Sorry, professor,” you and Draco mutter simultaneously, and you sink further into your seat as he begins to teach the day’s lesson. Not because you’re embarrassed for being reprimanded, _again_ , in front of your entire class— but because you’re _blushing_. 

Did he seriously just defend you? Against _Draco_?

He totally did.

You feel Rane nudge your arm, and you casually glance over at him. 

“What the bloody hell?” he mouths, clearly shocked as well, and you can only shrug in response. You’re hardly resisting the urge to grin like a fool, though somehow you attain enough self-restraint to do so. 

* * *

When class finally concludes, and you and Rane have successfully finished brewing the Calming Draught potion in your cauldron, you rush to neaten your workspace before heading towards the door. While you’re mindlessly sorting through your bag to clarify that you have the additional notes you’ve taken for Quinn in her absence, a familiar voice causes you to halt your movements.

“Miss (y/l/n), a word,” your professor’s deepened voice calls from behind you, and you feel a cluster of butterflies erupt within your stomach. 

Rane raises his brow, silently asking if you want him to wait with you, but you simply wave your hand. 

“Just meet me at the courtyard for lunch,” you say, and he gives you a short nod before leaving the room. 

_Just the two of you, now._

You exhale deeply, and turn swiftly on your heels to face your Potions Master. “Yes, professor?” you say, donning an innocent smile. 

He doesn’t seem amused.

“Kindly deliver this to Miss Atkinson, if you will,” Snape says firmly, handing you a sheet of parchment with Quinn’s name written at the top. You glance at it briefly, and immediately recognize it as the quiz you’d taken last week. “I’ve received an officiated letter from Flitwick that has vaguely explained the circumstances pertaining to her absence; therefore she is excused from today’s lesson. Though I expect to see her in class tomorrow.” 

_Seriously?_ He kept you behind for this?

You frown, almost annoyed. “Um, okay. I’ll let her know.”

He gives you a short nod, and then proceeds to return to his podium. 

You tilt your head slightly, considering whether you should leave now or attempt to extend the conversation.

You quickly decide on the latter.

“Thanks, by the way,” you say, taking a few hesitant steps towards the podium as he briefly glances your way. His darkened brow arches upwards, and you almost roll your eyes— considering that your reference should be obvious. “For defending me against Malfoy,” you clarify anyway. 

Professor Snape returns his gaze to the parchment before him, “I will not tolerate disruptive behavior in my class— as this is something you should be _more_ than aware of, Miss (y/l/n). I was simply retaining order, and reprimanding those who failed to listen,” his eyes briefly cut to yours, before focusing back on his writing. 

You purse your lips, irritably. Why is it so difficult for him to admit that he was defending you, which he so _obviously_ was? 

“Well, I think that it was more than just _retaining order_ ,” you begin to try your luck, and subconsciously wonder where this sudden spike in confidence is coming from. 

“Oh?” Snape replies disinterestedly, continuing to scribble against the parchment, and you huff lowly. 

“Yes,” you boldly cross your arms over your chest, “And as I was saying, I _appreciate_ it. It was nice of you to do, because you clearly could have allowed him to call me a bitch before you intervened.” 

Your professor’s hardened gaze suddenly meets your own. “ _Language_ , (y/l/n),” he says with evident annoyance, and you sigh.

“Sorry,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. He seems so oddly encompassed with whatever he’s writing on his parchment, and that inevitably heightens your interest. 

You can’t help but ask, “What are you working on?” 

Your Potions Master halts his scribbling, and releases an exasperated sigh. He’s quickly coming to realize that your incessant questions and noticeable lingering are intentional— though for whatever reason, he cannot bring himself to dismiss you. 

“I’m attempting to detect the dominant error within the composition for a forbidden potion that I fortuitously discovered several weeks ago,” he says, not unkindly, and briefly meets your curious eyes. “The concoction, if brewed correctly, is meant to heal internal wounds— _allegedly,_ ” he adds, before you’re able to ask. 

Your smile brightens, as you’re genuinely interested in any topic concerning Potions; especially the forbidden ones. You _are_ highly ranked in the class, so this isn’t much of a surprise. “That’s amazing! How do you even come across something like that? By accident?” 

“It was accidental. However,” Snape’s lip twitches slightly, and you swear you see a tiny trace of _smile,_ “I have been intrigued by the art of corrupt potions since I was a student years ago, therefore it wasn’t entirely surprising when I noticed the flaw.”

“That’s honestly really cool, professor,” you smile, and find yourself moving closer towards him and his podium. He’s watching you carefully— though he doesn’t necessarily stop you. 

“Have you come across any notable contenders yet?” you ask softly, now standing close enough to see the writing amidst the parchment over his shoulder. He still hasn’t snapped at you to get away from him, so you take this as a sign to remain firmly in your spot. 

“There are several,” he abruptly pauses, and you realize that he’s finally noticing your unbuttoned top and shortened skirt. His eyes are unreadable, though they hardly linger against your uniform for a mere two seconds before looking elsewhere, “Though I’ll have to construct a series of extensive trials before I’m able to proceed forward, with the appropriate accuracy.” 

“Well, maybe I could assist you with them?” you suggest, and momentarily switch off the sex-appeal to push the genuinity behind your offer. You really would be interested in helping, though _of course_ you’d jump at the opportunity to spend more one-on-one time with your mysterious Potions Master. 

_You could learn a lot about one another during these private sessions._

The deepened furrow between his brow is a prime indicator that he’s almost considering it. 

_Almost_. 

Though— much to your dismay— a scowl quickly replaces his usual look of indifference, and he’s storming away from you within seconds. 

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he sneers, and motions towards the door. You frown. “You are dismissed, _now,_ Miss (y/l/n).” 

To Snape’s surprise, you don’t move. You remain by his podium with your hands resting firmly against your hips, and a hardened glare donning your delicate features.

You’ve always been a pretty crier, so you’re just as certain that you’re even prettier when you’re angry. It is a gift, you suppose. And it happens often enough to be somewhat useful— especially in your current dilemma. 

“Why? I’m serious about wanting to help,” you say, your irritation and defensiveness heightening when your professor only scoffs in return. “I’m literally in the top _one_ percentile of your class, and I haven’t received a marking lower than a ninety-percent all semester. Why _wouldn’t_ you consider my assistance? I could help you locate the mutation much faster than if you were to do it alone.” 

“ _Out_ ,” Snape says briskly, and you scowl angrily as you step away from his podium.

“Fine!” you hiss, shoving Quinn’s dated quiz into your bag as you stomp past your professor. You abruptly pause before completely leaving his classroom, and can’t help the looming urge to whip your head towards him. “I just want you to know that you make _zero_ sense. And it’s so illogical for you to willingly explain your interests to me, knowing that I’m interested in the subject as well, when you could’ve just dismissed me to begin with. What was the purpose of doing _that_?” 

Your Potions Master doesn’t react at all to your words, and merely blinks in return. If anything, he seems _bored_. 

You’re so fucking annoyed.

You refuse to let this go.

You grip onto the strap of your bag so tightly that your knuckles begin to whiten, and forcefully lock your gaze against your professor’s as you hastily approach him. You become so close within his proximity that your chests are only an inch or so apart, and suddenly you’re looking up at him with a sinister smile.

His face remains stoic, though you notice a glimpse of uncertainty flash against his guarded eyes. 

_Got ya._

“Are you sure you don’t want my help?” you say sweetly, fluttering your long lashes as you do whenever you’re determined to get your way. 

“ _(y/l/n),_ ” Snape warns, though his tone isn’t anywhere close to being as harsh as it was before. 

Your gaze unintentionally lands on his lips— which are slightly parted, as if he were preparing to scold you again— and you can’t help but bite your own.

_What if you just…._

No. Not yet, at least. 

You seriously want to help.

Your eyes quickly flick upwards, and you fiercely meet your professor’s harmless glare.

“Please let me help you,” you say, and reluctantly take a few steps back. Snape begins to inhale deeply, and presses his lips firmly together— though allows you to continue speaking. “Or, at least, give me a one week trial. If I’m legitimately zero help to you, then you can kick me aside and I’ll never bother you about it again. Swear.” 

You hold up your pinky, and a faint smirk threatens the corner of your Potions Master’s mouth.

“One. Week.” he says derisively, and gently nudges you towards the door. “Beginning this Friday afternoon, three-o’clock in my office. If you are tardy, your trial _expires_. Effective immediately.”

You grin cheekily, and Snape rolls his eyes. “I’ll be on time, professor,” you promise. 

“I have several reasons to doubt as much, though I suppose I have no choice but to take your word,” he says passively, and nods his head towards the door, once more. “ _Dismissed_ , (y/l/n).” 

You continue to grin as you leave Professor Snape’s classroom, and silently congratulate yourself as you navigate your way through the dungeons. 

Oh, is he in for a _treat._

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always for the love <3

Later that evening, you find yourself lounging at the top of the astronomy tower with Rane and Quinn, mindlessly gossiping over a smuggled bottle of expensive wine and admiring the breathtaking view. You’ve always had a liking for space and the stars— so this has become your absolute _favorite_ spot since your accidental discovery during your second-year. 

“I don’t know, I may ask Granger,” Rane says, and tilts his head slightly to gauge yours and Quinn’s reactions. “She’s quite the girl, don’t you think?”

“She’s _obnoxious,”_ Quinn scowls, rolling her eyes. She ignores Rane’s defensive glare and continues on, “And seriously Rane, your standards cannot be that low. A _mudblood,_ really? What would your parents think?” 

“She’s _brilliant_ ,” you interrupt, and narrow your eyes with a hint of disgust towards your best friend. “You cannot be _that_ ignorant, Quinn. Who cares about her blood status, she’s undeniably one of the best witches in our year.” 

Quinn only scoffs in return. “Oh, my _apologies._ I wasn’t aware that you two were so adamant to play devil’s advocate for the lowest of the wizarding world,” she meets your threatening gaze and smirks, unbothered, “I’m sure your sacred family would have a field day with this information, (y/n).” 

“Whatever,” you mutter, though you can’t say much more because you know that she’s _unfortunately_ right. Your parents may grant you free will when it comes to senseless flings or casual sex— though with legitimate relationships, blood status isn’t negotiable. _Ever._

You refer to them as pureblood nazis behind their backs. You’ve never shared their extremist views, and honestly, it’s _embarrassing_ to you. 

The Sacred Twenty-Eight cachet is absolutely no _joke._ And it’s bloody exhausting to constantly have association with. Your enormous fortune aside, too many people— including _Quinn—_ lack the general understanding of how stressful obtaining your status truly is. 

_Dangerous, too._ _And you don’t even know the half of it._

“Well my family isn’t nearly as threatening about the pureblood bullshit as (y/n)’s, so that isn’t much of a concern,” Rane declares with a prolonged swig of red wine, “It’s decided then. I’ll need your assistance with plotting my spectacular Yule Ball proposal to Hermione over the next week.” 

“Yay!” you cheer, clapping your hands excitedly as Quinn groans, “It’ll be brilliant Rane, and she won’t hesitate at all to say yes.” 

“That’s debatable,” Quinn irritably twirls a strand of her hair and glances towards you, “In more _interesting_ news, I heard that you were going to the ball with Malfoy, (y/n). Your parents set that one up?” 

You roll your eyes. “More like _his._ Mine would never, especially not my father— and besides, they’re far too aware of how blatantly uninterested I am in Draco. Romantically, at least.” 

“Fair enough,” Quinn nods, understandably, “Who are you going to go with, then? I’m sure you have several (y/l/n)-approvable offers.” 

“Snape,” Rane teases, and you don’t hesitate to shoot him a deathly glare. “Awe come on, lighten up (y/n). And honestly, you can’t even deny that he fancies you a bit.” 

Quinn snorts. “Snape doesn’t fancy _anyone._ ” 

“Exactly,” you far-too-quickly agree, ignoring the inquisitive look Quinn sends you in return, “The joke is played out Rane. Let it go.” 

“Oh. My. God,” Quinn grins, and you poorly attempt to hide the _obvious_ blush forming against your cheeks, “You have a total crush on Snape, (y/n). What the _hell_? Are you mad?” 

“I do not,” you mutter. Rane and Quinn share an amused laugh, and you snatch the bottle of wine from the giddy black-haired Slytherin, “Shut the fuck _up._ ” 

“You don’t have to lie to us, of _all_ people. I mean seriously, who would we tell?” Quinn gently nudges your arm and you hardly resist the urge to scowl. “So, why don’t we make this little crush a bit more….. _interesting?_ ” 

Whenever Quinn leaves you with an open-ended statement as such, it never means well. And you definitely would’ve ended the night on that concerning note— if you were _sober._

But you aren’t, so you continue to stare at your best friend with a hardened yet curious gaze. 

“If you manage to seduce our old Potions Master and _do the deed,_ Rane and I will accompany you to Switzerland for holiday with zero complaints for the entirety of the trip.” 

“Quinn!” you scowl, roughly smacking her arm as Rane laughs uncontrollably. “What the hell?!” 

“Oh please, don’t act like you haven’t considered it,” Quinn continues to grin, and you suddenly feel uneasy at her seriousness, “Why not kill two hippogriffs with one stone, and succeed in both? You get a solidified E in Potions, _and_ that vacation that you’ve been going on and on about since the start of term.” 

You purse your lips, sustaining your stiffened glare as Quinn happily wiggles her brows. 

Oh, _what the hell._ Just because you agree doesn’t necessarily mean that you have to _do_ anything. 

“I’ll consider it,” you decide, and roll your eyes at Quinn’s satisfied smile.

 _This could be fun,_ you reluctantly find yourself thinking. 

This semester has been fairly uneventful, after all. And you’ve never been one to back down from a challenge. 

  
  


* * *

Friday afternoon, at exactly two fifty-eight, you're leaning against the portrait outside of Snape’s office and mindlessly admiring your newest manicure. You’ve been here since two forty-five, and have been desperately trying to entertain yourself for the last _excruciatingly slow_ thirteen minutes. You even took it upon yourself to leave Herbology fifteen minutes early by feeding Professor Sprout the old ‘it’s that time of the month’ excuse, as you wanted to ensure your punctual arrival. 

So where the _hell_ is he?

“(y/l/n).” 

_Impressive timing._

You quickly spin around on your heels, and immediately meet the daunting yet inquisitive gaze of your Potions Master. 

Why does he look so _surprised_? 

“You’re…. _on time_ ,” Professor Snape eyes you with a subtle sense of bewilderment, and you offer him a cheeky grin in return. 

“Well of course I am. You told me to be here at three o’clock, remember?” you reply sweetly, becoming all the more amused when he stiffly moves past you to unlock his office. 

“I suppose I do _vaguely_ recall telling you as much,” he mutters, and you stifle a laugh. He kindly holds the door open for you, though avoids your lingering gaze as you stride into the familiar space. 

You still can’t believe how nice his office is. _Regal,_ almost. It kinda reminds you of home. 

“So, what ingredients are we going to test today?” you ask as you casually lean against the armchair neighboring the stone fireplace. Your Potions Master doesn’t immediately respond, instead briefly disappearing behind a hidden corner within the spacious room; though soon emerges with three plastic containers balancing against his forearms. 

“Murtlap tentacle, powdered moonstone and valerian root,” Snape says dryly, and carefully places the containers atop the elevated table beside you. You assume it’s his usual ‘hands on’ workspace area— and you suddenly find yourself smiling at the thought of your professor testing varying potions for fun after hours. 

He definitely seems like the type. 

_You think it’s cute._

“Okay, fun,” you grin, though subtly wrinkle your nose at the profound odor emanating from the murtlap tentacle. God, it’s _awful_. You’re thankful it’s one of the rare ingredients that you almost never use in class. 

“Kindly retrieve the burner and brass scales from the lowest shelf on your left, if you will,” Snape mutters as he begins to collect additional materials from the organized compartment above you. 

You silently do as you’re told, and carefully place the materials between the two of you as your Potions Master begins to sort the ingredients according to the batch. 

“We will begin the trials with the powdered moonstone, as it is the least demanding to brew— and conclude with the murtlap tentacle, given the extortionate level of difficulty,” Snape explains with a rigid sense of formality, and hands you the mortar and pestle. You pretend to examine it, in a subtle effort to avoid staring at him for too long. _He does look exceptionally handsome today, after all._

“Now, listen to my instructions with keen vigilance and Do. Not. Become. _Distracted_ ,” he glances at you pointedly, and you smirk faintly in return, “Your unwavering focus is essential to this process, as the slightest error will necessitate a complete re-brewing. And with the already laborious nature of this freelanced endeavor— it is not a _task_ that I have additional time for.” 

“Yes sir,” you nod firmly, and take it upon yourself to add a playful salute for shits and giggles. Snape’s mouth twitches slightly, though he doesn’t allow himself to fully smile.

“Let us begin, then.”

* * *

Nearly two hours later, you find yourself harboring a severe sense of disappointment— as your brief conversations have strictly pertained to the meticulous list of instructions and silent glances of approval (mostly being yours).

Professor Snape, for the most part, has deliberately ignored your numerous attempts to steer the conversation into a _casual_ direction— and impassively corrects your stirring technique whenever you ask him about anything too personal. 

“ _Three_ more times, counterclockwise, (y/l/n),” he drawls out, sounding unbelievably bored after dodging another one of your attempts to push the formative discussion elsewhere, “And _slow_ _down_. You will undoubtedly ruin this batch should you continue to stir with so little concern,” he adds flatly.

“ _Sorry_ ,” you scowl, your tone dripping with evident sarcasm as you slow your movements. You then rest your chin against the palm of your free hand and pout slightly— becoming increasingly _bored_ as the minutes pass on.

This isn’t exactly how you imagined the private potion-making sessions would be. 

You vaguely hear your Potions Master mutter something beneath his breath and nosily turn your head, only to find him stepping away from you and hastily returning to the reserved area behind his desk. 

You can’t help but roll your eyes. Why is he _always_ at his desk? His office is fucking huge, yet he never fails to confine himself within the reticent promiximity of his desk— at least whenever you’re around. 

“ _Focus_ , (y/l/n),” Snape abruptly snaps, and you jolt slightly in surprise. You didn’t realize that you were _staring_ that hard. 

Oops.

You silently focus your attention back on the assigned task and huff, making an effort to carefully complete the final stir around the cauldron before balancing the spatula against the rim. “It’s finished,” you mutter and irritably slide off of your stool. Since that was the third and final batch, you suppose that your general assistance is no longer needed.

How utterly disappointing. You managed to get absolutely _nothing_ out of him. 

“Very well,” Snape hardly looks at you as he returns to the workspace area and inspects your batch, “This particular concoction must sit overnight, therefore we cannot continue the process until Monday,” he says, and then silently returns to his desk.

You continue to stand by the table in shock. 

_Seriously_? That’s it?

He couldn’t even spare a fucking _thank you?_

Though just as you’re about to lose your usual tameness on your temper, you notice a rather curious artifact out of the corner of your eye and divert your attention towards it. 

“That’s a Bartholomew original,” you think aloud, narrowing your eyes slightly as you examine the familiar symbol on the worn chemistry set displayed atop Snape’s bookshelf. 

Your Potions Master’s hardened gaze immediately meets yours. “How….” he pauses, and eyes you suspiciously, “How exactly do you _know_ that?” 

You raise your brow, challenging, almost. “Because _I_ have one too _._ My parents gifted me with it for Christmas several years ago— when I was eight or nine.” You turn back towards the bookshelf, a faint smile threatening your lips, “It’s one of the best gifts I’ve ever been given.” 

It isn’t long before you feel your professor’s distinctive presence looming beside you. He doesn’t utter a word for several moments, though surprisingly, the silence between you isn’t at all uncomfortable. 

“Horace Slughorn— a former professor who taught Potions during my time at Hogwarts— gifted it to _me_ , during my sixth year,” Snape says passively, though you can tell that the kind gesture meant a great deal to him. “It is, considerably, one of the best gifts that I’ve received as well.” 

“It is a pretty cool set,” you say, smiling. Snape’s eyes noticeably soften, and he responds with a short nod, silently agreeing with your statement. “I don’t use it much anymore, because I’m concerned that it may break at this point— though I have mine displayed in my bedroom, on a special shelf, too.” 

Silence, again. 

Your curiosity never fails to get the best of you, and you can’t help but subtly glance to your left. You’re surprised, to say the least, that your professor is noticeably _struggling_ to maintain his usual expressionless facade. You can vaguely see the turmoil looming beneath his darkened eyes— though you’re unsure as to _why_ he’s so conflicted right now.

You’re merely engaging in innocent conversation, why is he even the slightest bit stressed about _that?_

You swear he’s so overly dramatic sometimes.

“Are you alright?” you find yourself asking as the minutes begin to pass, and jump slightly when Snape’s cold eyes lock onto yours. The _intensity_ nearly throws you off balance. 

Though before he has the opportunity to respond to your inquiry, you notice a familiar powdery substance lingering against your professor’s cheek. 

“Oh, you have some remnants of the moonstone on your face,” you say kindly, slightly amused, and stretch your hand outwards. 

Before you can logically consider your actions, as you _often_ fail to do, your delicate fingers are gently brushing against the strained skin beneath your professor’s right eye.

The realization quickly dawns on you when your Potions Master stiffens beneath your unwarranted touch, though for _whatever_ reason, you don’t immediately retract. 

And neither does he _._

“(y/l/n),” Snape finally mutters in warning, _just_ above a whisper, and the deep raspiness of his voice causes your mind to go blank. 

Completely blank. 

You hardly acknowledge the way your heart is brutally slamming against your chest, and mindlessly drift your fingers towards Snape’s parted lips. You visibly shiver at the feeling of his ragged breathing against your fingertips. 

_Do it,_ the daring voice inside of your head demands, and you nearly give in. _Do it, do it._

You're closer now. Your chest is ever so slightly pressed against his, which is much firmer than you would’ve expected. And he still hasn’t moved away from you, not even an _inch_. 

_Do it!_

You gently nudge your nose against his, and your eyes flutter close as a series of goosebumps consume the entirety of your small frame. You arch your neck, hardly a _millimeter_ , and move closer and closer until—

You _hesitate._

And that second of hesitation is long enough for Snape to fully recognize your current situation, and immediately regain control. 

You’re stunned to silence, and _embarrassment,_ as your professor’s lengthened fingers clasp around the gentle hand lingering against his jaw, and roughly snatches it away. 

“Get. _Out.”_ he sneers, and briefly glares at you in utter disgust before storming away.

He quickly disappears behind that unexplored, hidden corner within his office— and you scurry to grab your bag as tears threaten the corners of your eyes.

Within your clouded mind, you pitifully wonder how much crying you’ll have to do towards your father for him to pay a visit to Dumbledore and demand your immediate withdrawal from Snape’s Potions class. 

You absolutely _refuse_ to face him after this. You’ve never experienced rejection before, and the utter humiliation is enough to cause you permanent, life-long trauma. 

And who is _he_ to reject _you_? Like he could even think about doing any better. You’re a _(y/l/n),_ for Merlin’s sake. 

What the fuck ever. You’ll just wander into the Slytherin common room and allow some of the seventh-year Quidditch players to drool over you as they usually do. That’ll undoubtedly boost your ego—

Your angered thoughts are suddenly interrupted by the feeling of a strong hand clasping against your forearm, and you audibly gasp as Snape forcefully turns you to face him.

”You are a becoming a veritable _menace_ , (y/l/n),” he scowls, before roughly slamming his parted lips against your own. 


End file.
